


Hitting the Fan

by plingo_kat



Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: Gen, Gen Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-14 19:13:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which everything is embarrassing, Pooch is captured, and Jensen's shoulders hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hitting the Fan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lily_gish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lily_gish/gifts).



> Okay okay so I started out this story with the intention of it being something completely different, i.e. lots of Clay/Jensen and bondage, with implications of d/s subtext and possibly exploration of DADT issues.
> 
> This is not that story. But I hope you like it anyway, lily_gish! <3

The thing was, Clay thought, looking at his hacker hunched over a laptop that looked much too small for his frame, the thing was, they looked normal. Most of the time they even _acted_ normal, in that Jensen flirted badly and Clay had horrible luck with women and Cougar had delusions of cowboy-hood and Pooch really loved cars.

Roque didn’t count. He was stone cold crazy.

But really, looking at them you wouldn’t think they were -- well, fairly psychotic motherfuckers -- but they honestly, truly were. All the Losers had it, the twist of mind that made good SpecOps officers, the little voice in your head that whispered about fire and jumping off heights and _why should the law apply to you anyway?_ that most people ignored.

The Losers didn’t. They weren’t insane; they were _too_ sane, wolves among sheep, quick and sharp and bright when most of the population was dull, thick-witted.

Which made this situation that much harder to bear.

It was supposed to be an easy mission, a milk-run. Go in, eliminate the threat, grab stuff if their sticky fingers were so inclined, and get out. No muss. No fuss. Only something had gone wrong where Cougar’s scope couldn’t see, and nobody else could hear, and Pooch had been captured.

Pooch had been captured, but the rest of the Losers were going to get him _out_.

\-----

 

“So what you’re saying is,” said Jensen, “is that I’m useless.”

“Not completely,” said Clay calmly. Like, the I’m-going-to-kill-you-in-a-minute-so-don’t-push-me calm. “Just right now. Jensen. They have no computers. You. Are. Rear guard.”

“Yessir,” he muttered, sullenly, and slunk off to complain to Cougar. Cougs would listen to him. Cougs was an excellent listener, because he didn’t talk back. People always tried to give advice, or sound understanding, but what you really needed was just a silent listener. Sometimes shadow puppets worked too. But mainly a really quiet person with a hat that could kill you at five hundred yards and could mutter menacingly in incomprehensible Spanish and okay Jensen was just shutting up now.

Cougar grunted, tipping his hat over his eyes and leaning back to take a nap. Jensen sighed.

\-----

Roque was all for a frontal assault, mostly because they had obtained a rocket launcher recently and hadn’t gotten a chance to use it before then. He and Clay argued about it for a while before Clay pulled rank and said they were going in over a wall in the less heavily guarded southwest. As a concession (because Roque was crazy, crazy, crazy) he let Roque carry the rocket launcher to create a distraction.

“We’re all gonna die,” Jensen opined when that little fact became known.

“Shut the fuck up,” said Roque amiably, cleaning his knives. Jensen was sure he did that only to creep the rest of them out. He was _always cleaning them._

“Shutting up,” said Jensen, who did actually have a sense of self-preservation. A little, anyway. Some.

Cougar, as always, was quiet.

“Okay,” sighed Clay. He probably had a hangover or something. Clay was one of those people who perpetually had hangovers, like he was born without enough alcohol buffering in his blood to make him a real human unless he had half-a-bottle first. It was what made him such a good leader for the Losers, because he didn’t have tolerance for bullshit.

“Everyone rest the fuck up. Roque, stop baiting Jensen, I already said you could fire the rocket launcher. Jensen, shut up. Cougar--” Clay shot a glance at Cougar. “Cougar, do whatever the fuck you want. I’m checking my gear and going to sleep. We leave at twenty-two hundred. Dismissed.” He walked away without looking back.

Roque grinned, flipping a (different, bigger) knife in his hand. Jensen eyed him and decided to go relax by hacking into the Pentagon.

\-----

 

The rescue went wrong pretty much immediately. This was mostly Roque’s fault, because he got trigger happy with the rocket launcher.

Jensen, _to this day_ , still doesn’t know how Roque managed to carry all that ammo. Rockets are _big_.

But anyway, yes, a trigger-happy Roque. They made it over the wall fine, Cougar hidden conveniently in the trees nearby with a good view of the entire compound. It was when Clay gave the go-ahead for the distraction that things got -- tricky.

“Oh yeah, motheruckers!” roared Roque, laughing insanely as he socked a second rocket into the launcher, light and heat from the first one fired washing over them all. “Come and get it!”

Clay’s “Roque!” was lost in another explosion.

“What the fuck are you doing!” Jensen yelled. “Come on, let’s move, we gotta go get Pooch!”

And then about fifty men with guns ran up and surrounded them.

Jensen: “Why does this shit always happen to us?”

\-----

 

“What,” Clay hissed, stalking right up into Roque’s face, “the fuck was that out there?”

“So I got a little carried away,” said Roque. “ _It was a fucking rocket launcher,_ Clay.”

Three of them (not Cougar) had been thrown into a cell, conveniently together and also with an unconscious Pooch. Two guards stood outside the door.

Jensen knelt on the dirt floor, checking Pooch over for injuries; he was roughed up, but nothing was broken and there was no internal bleeding. As Clay and Roque yelled at each other, Jensen snuck a look at the guard goons. They were watching the argument with amusement.

“--my ass!” Clay was saying. “When we’re in the field, you follow my orders! What you were--”

“Oh fuck off,” Roque sneered, bumping Clay deliberately as he stepped away. Clay reacted fast, grabbing him back and slamming him against the wall furthest from the door.

Jensen didn’t see who threw the first punch, but soon there was an all-out brawl in the corner.

“Oh, come on!” he said. “Guys, break it up--” he stepped closer, only to get a flailing elbow in the side.

“Ow!” He stumbled back. “Fine, be that way. Hey, hey you.” The nameless guards looked at him. “Yeah, you guys, you need us alive, right? Or you would have killed us already. I mean, hoo boy, there were a lot of guns trained on us out there, so probably your boss -- bosses? -- whatever, they want us all in one piece, right, and those two will totally tear each other apart, man, I’m not kidding, so some help would be appreciated, you know what I mean?”

The first guard (Jensen named him Dum) looked at the second (Dee, of course) and got a nod and a grunt. Dee unlocked the door, occupying both his hands.

Big mistake. As soon as the bars slid back, Clay and Roque were on their feet, Roque tackling Dum and Clay sprinting towards Dee. Jensen had already engaged, by which he meant smashing his fist into Dee’s face, and was grappling with him over possession of the gun on Dee’s belt. Clay hit him hard in the nose, then put him in a stranglehold until he stopped struggling.

“Pooch?”

“Fine, but drugged, I think,” said Jensen. “I can carry him, you and Roque have better aim anyway.”

“Damn right we do,” Roque came up next to them grinning, dragging Pooch along with his hands under his arms. “Here, take him.” He propped Pooch up against the wall, swiping his thumb over a split lip as soon as his hands were free.

“Nice job,” said Clay, stealing Dee’s gun and checking how much ammo there was in the clip.

“Always up for a brawl with you.” Roque grinned at Clay, teeth bloody.

“I meant the guard,” said Clay, fingering his own black eye. “Though you did a good job pretending with me too.”

“Wasn’t pretending,” Roque drawled.

Clay socked the clip back into its socket and stuffed the extra ammo hanging off Dee’s vest in to his pockets. Roque already had all of Dum’s weapons.

“I vote we all stop talking and get out of here,” said Jensen. “I could murder a burger right now. Hey, that rhymed!”

“Shut up,” chorused Roque and Clay together, then nodded at each other and headed down the corridor they were in.

Jensen sighed, heaving Pooch over his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. Typical.

\-----

 

Five wrong turns and three extremely short firefights later, they made it outside. (The goons around there weren’t all that impressive, like Jensen said before. Embarrassment about being caught would haunt them for _weeks_.) Cougar greeted them with a headshot to the goon set to ambush them by the door, announcing his presence and also painting the wall next to them with blood, brain matter and little bits of bone. This was especially relevant to Jensen because it caught the side of his face and misted across his glasses.

Ew, right? Totally ew.

“Run!” shouted Clay. Jensen did (only following orders, sir, honest) and Pooch bounced uncomfortably. Roque had taken point, clearing the way with a semi-automatic they’d picked off a dead goon two doors back, and Clay acted as rearguard. Jensen focused on sprinting and not getting shot.

His wishes were granted, finally; they were in the trees outside the camp now, and Cougar came jogging up as quiet as the hunter he was named after. Jensen handed Pooch over with relief (his shoulders were starting to hurt, okay, hauling around two-hundred plus pounds of muscle was hard work) and leaned against a tree, panting.

“So,” he said after a moment of silence. “Who’s up for a burger when we get back home?”

\-----

 

Pooch woke up a few hours later in the helicopter sent to extract them.

“I have a killer headache,” he groaned. “I mean -- oh god, I got captured, Jolene’s going to kill me.”

“Tell me about it,” Jensen nodded around a mouth full of ration bar. “I missed my niece’s soccer game. It’s only her second time competing, she needs her favorite uncle to be in the stands cheering her on!” He though maybe he was being a little creepy, with the sparkly eyes and the hands clasped to his heart, but the Petunias! They were such a cute group of eight-year olds, especially decked out in cleats and little identical pink t-shirts.

He saw how Pooch was staring at him, and felt Cougar’s silent freaked out look on his back.

“Oh, fine.” He sat back against the seat, pouting. “You guys have no appreciation for sport.”

“Jensen?”

“Yeah?”

“Shut up.”

“Shutting up, Colonel.”

“...”

“So seriously, Burger King when we get back home?”

Pooch nearly fell out of the helicopter in the scuffle that followed.


End file.
